Changó's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes

by William Kennedy

  Quinn accepted the cigar and said, “I smoked my first at age eleven and spat for half an hour. In 1945 I was working a Christmas job in the post office and a mailman gave me a Headline, a sweet nickel cigar and I loved it. I graduated to ten-cent White Owls, but I know nothing of serious cigars. I’m ready to learn.”

  “Cuba will teach you, and about many other things also,” Fidel said. “It has already taught you about women.”

  “I’m not quite sure what I’ve learned,” said Quinn.

  “You learned how to take a wife.”

  “That was a miracle.”

  “Yes, they sometimes happen in Cuba.”

  Fidel led Quinn outside and they walked from the hut to the edge of the woods and back with all the men watching them, the interpreter at Quinn’s side speaking into his ear. Fidel lit Quinn’s and his own Double Coronas with a Zippo and Quinn puffed his alive, savored it, and between puffs gestured his approval to the Comandante.

  “They are truly great,” said Fidel. “And the smoke also repels mosquitoes.”

  “To get back to revolution,” said Quinn. “My grandfather quoted Maceo that you don’t beg for liberty, you win it with the blow of a machete. He was awed by it. Do you know the battle of Jiguaní?”

  “I know the machete. Battles were encounters in that war, not designed. Armies came upon each other and fought.”

  “That was Jiguaní,” said Quinn. “Gómez had tried to lure the Spaniards out of their barracks, but failed, so he sent troops to burn Jiguaní’s cattle farm and kill the Spanish herd, and sent hundreds of former slaves, convoyeros , to bring back the meat. The unarmed convoyeros were carrying great slabs of beef back toward Gómez when Spanish foot soldiers ambushed them. Gómez heard the firing and moved with his six hundred white-shirted troops—the charge of the whispering machetes—and the Spanish front disintegrated. Mambí horsemen cut off their arms, or split them in half, a great slaughter. The wounded crawled into the woods to hide, but the Mambí soldiers followed. Nicodemo, the slave who had guided my grandfather into Cuba Libre, was shot in the left arm, but with machete in hand listened for moans from the wounded and beheaded eighteen. He piled their heads at the forest’s edge.”

  “First,” said Fidel, “I want you to know that we do not execute enemy wounded. At La Plata we treated them with our medicine. And second, if the troops had formed their Spanish square, those charging machetes would have fallen from Spanish volleys. The machete was effective when the war began, for the surprised Spaniards could not match it with their single-shot rifles and bayonets. It was a weapon for close combat, not attack. The machete was still used in ’95, but when Gómez ordered a machete charge in a battle at Cascorro the Spaniards had repeating rifles, Mausers, and they slaughtered the Cubans, dead horses everywhere. That legendary charge of the machete had come to an end.”

  Quinn and the Comandante had been sitting elbow-to-elbow on the outcropping, Quinn’s cigar down to a stub. Fidel stood up and two of his men moved closer to him.

  “I would like to explain in detail to you,” he said, “just how we are waging our war on Batista’s army, but that would give him the edge. He has three thousand troops in Oriente. We do not have so many. But I can tell you this, that the way into the Sierra Maestra is not easy. Every entrance is like the pass at Thermopylae, where fourteen hundred Greeks held off a hundred thousand Persians for seven days, slaughtering a multitude until a traitor showed the Persians a path where they were able to outflank the Greeks.”

  “The traitor is eternal.”

  “Yes, but sometimes he does not prevail.”

  With a smile and body language Fidel moved the interview toward closure. He extended his hand and Quinn shook it.

  “Señor Quinn,” he said, “I thank you for making the journey here. The interview has been a good one. You did not try to entrap me in political conundrums. We must continue another day. But now I have an appointment with President Batista’s armed forces.”

  “Thank you for your words, and the congri, and the cigar,” said Quinn.

  “Hasta luego,” said Fidel.

  “Buena suerte,” said Quinn. Good luck.

  Quinn and Omar, heading back to meet Moncho at Arsenio’s wife’s house, were both on their stomachs in a sparse growth of young trees, small bushes, and tall grass, not moving, for Omar had seen four Cuban army soldiers below in a jeep and he waved Quinn to the ground and hissed “Abajo,” then dropped himself into the bushes. Lying on his side looking through the grass Quinn saw no soldiers. He saw a woman’s painted face looming large before him, oval, pale-blue and off-white with very red lips, and she hovered, so vivid that he was about to ask who sent you when she vanished, and all he could see was the undergrowth he was lying in and wishing it were deeper.

  Omar lay thirty yards ahead which, Quinn would come to know, was Fidel’s method of moving troops—one by one, a hundred yards between them, not thirty. Omar kept Quinn closer than a hundred for he did not want to lose him; but Fidel’s method was one man in the lead and if they take him down the second one is aware, and new directions are taken. One dead is a big loss but not as big as when one squad leader, ignoring Fidel’s standing order, piled his men into a truck to get there faster and was blown to fragments by an army bazooka, ten gone. Batista’s troops took home nothing from this about the liability of togetherness and they continued moving in a column on the principle of power and safety in numbers, and were shot in multiples by hidden rebels as they came into range. They could then either die returning fire at the invisible foe or survive in retreat.

  Quinn and Omar were another hour getting to the rendezvous house, a seven-and-a-half-hour trek. Quinn was desperately tired, soaked in sweat, and all he wanted was sleep. The painted woman’s face returned above him as he walked, her forehead and nose powder blue, eyes rimmed with the same blue, her cheeks, chin, and neck all off-white and her hair a bright yellow. What brings you here, lovely lady, creature from an exotic realm? Is your painted face an enticement to love? Your place or mine? Where is your place? I’ll need a nap first. She didn’t answer, just stared over his head, an aloof one. Maybe she’s the mime of Oshun, isn’t blue her color? Or Renata’s grandmother, desolate spirit, love clown in grief coming late to our wedding. Was she Sikan, about to be sacrificed for capturing the sacred fish, or was this what Renata would look like in ten years? She abandoned Quinn when the sun grew brighter and he was left with a sense of urgency to do something, but what? He could not say, and his urgency turned to anxiety.

  He recapitulated his three hours of conversation with the Comandante, trying to fix on a lead for the story he would write. He liked the line about luck but that wasn’t news. The Comandante’s “appointment” with the president’s armed forces was newsy, if it happened and Quinn could get it into print before or on the same day the appointment was kept. What would it be? A modest attack like La Plata? Fidel did not seem to have many men. Quinn had counted about thirty visible around the hut. Quinn you are thinking like a beat reporter. Forget news and profile the revolutionary who doesn’t die. Yes, that was how to do it.

  Quinn was as deceived as Matthews about the real number of the rebel force. Matthews guessed two hundred when they were twenty, Quinn counted thirty but they were sixty. Four hours after Quinn had wished him luck the Comandante moved his troops out, a ten-mile march to the army outpost at EI Uvero, a wooden garrison on a lake with fifty-three soldiers. The rebels approached at a crawl for half an hour and took attack positions forty yards from the garrison. Fidel fired first at two o’clock under a genuinely full moon and army rifles flashed with return fire. The fight lasted three hours until the rebels had the garrison in crossfire from two .30 caliber machine guns on tripods, and the army raised the white flag. The rebels counted six dead, the army fourteen, and fourteen taken prisoner, the bloodiest encounter in this war. The rebels loaded an army truck with forty-six rifles, two machine guns, six thousand rounds of ammunition, medicine, clothes, food. The victory proved
the value of Fidel’s tactics and the vulnerability of army outposts. All were closed and the troops moved to Oriente’s main military bases.

  Moncho and Alfie were waiting for Quinn at the house of Arsenio’s old wife. Quinn briefed them on his interview and his cigar and said he needed to sleep before he could utter another word. They put him in the backseat of Moncho’s car with a pillow and Moncho drove to Palma Soriano where Renata and Quinn would resume their honeymoon.

  But Renata was not there.

  Holtz said he had driven her back from Moncho’s in the Buick an hour after Quinn’s departure for Fidel. She said she did not want to sleep in that house, and when they got to Holtz’s she immediately went to her room. Holtz woke at eight this morning to find that she and the Buick were gone, and no message left.

  Quinn was baffled. She knew she was a target for the police or the SIM through her link to Diego, and maybe because she joined the protesting women in Céspedes Park. Was she angry at not seeing Fidel? She knew it was unlikely. Punishing Quinn for going without her? And how does vanishing compensate for being left out? Isolating herself to cool down? Going off alone to affirm her intrepidity, self-sufficiency, guts, and defiance—making a willful leap into rebel-fugitive status?

  They checked airlines to see if she flew to Havana. Would she take a train? Drive? They checked hospitals for accidents. Would she go home? Unlikely. Her mother said the police had come to the house looking for her. Should we call the police in Santiago to see if she’s in custody? No. Retrace her steps—follow the road back to Santiago to see if the car had a breakdown, or was abandoned. Check city streets, restaurants, the Yacht Club. Check the hotel—she’s still registered and has clothes in the room. Have Holtz call anybody left in the Directorio to see if she made contact. Call Esme. Call her aunt in Cárdenas, the one she lied about going to see. Natalia would call Renata’s friends in Oriente, but she only knew a few. Moncho called people in the 26th underground in Santiago. He sent a message to Fidel’s people to be on the watch, also to Arsenio. Moncho had family contacts to call. Holtz and his sister got nowhere. Moncho turned up nothing. Quinn called Max who instantly blamed Quinn for letting her go off alone. He said the Post couldn’t run his Fidel interview because of new censorship pressure. Max said he’d pass the word to his spies in high places, the Buro, the police. “If anything happens to that girl, Quinn . . .” and he hung up.

  She would call. She would come back to Holtz’s. She would get a message to Quinn, her husband. She was so wildly in love that she had married him before she got to know him. She was a resourceful woman. Savvy. A good driver. Didn’t drink much. Knew how to protect herself. Wouldn’t willfully put herself in jeopardy. Smart as they come. Brilliant. A survivor. Narciso said danger lay ahead for her and gave her that necklace, told her to show it to her enemy and tell him if he harms her Changó will kill him. She took that seriously. Narciso said Quinn was in danger from murderers. The police? The SIM? Batista’s freelance gangsters? Alfie said he’d put his friends on the case. Alfie was worried. He really liked Renata. He’d look for her with Quinn, wherever, however long it took.

  Quinn entered the hall, his hair thick in a casual torsion to the right, and very black. He smiled at the group, mostly men, though he could not be sure whether women were among them. Their number seemed to diminish, which was of no matter. He was ready to speak, and did, text in hand which he did not look at or need, and what he said evoked laughter from all, and he knew the audience was ready for him and he grew confident. He spoke about faces and masks, how we need them to survive, which was a gaffe. He suddenly realized he knew several of the men and they were dead. To his left sat an old colleague, dead, but full of smiles that seemed earnest, which was unlikely, for there was bad history here. Perhaps it was a welcoming, glad to see you here among the dead.

  The reason Quinn was speaking of surviving to dead men would become clear, he was sure. He talked on but the audience was now lost to him, vanishing rather quickly. The old colleague stood up and smiled, not speaking, but giving enthusiastic gestures for all Quinn was saying. Then he left and Quinn turned and spoke his next words to half a dozen listeners, his hair moving and then flung back in a manner that suggested a brilliant British film actor whose name he could not remember. He wondered if any in the audience would recognize the dramatic effect of the thrown hair, which was a bodily gesture of completion, confidence, singularity. It was a most dramatic effect for any actor. It did not matter that the audience was gone. Quinn knew how witty, how meaningful his remarks were.

  “The arc of justice,” he said to the empty room, “the arc of justice . . .”

  ALBANY, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 5, 1968

  Daniel Quinn’s day began with the tragedy of Bobby Kennedy comatose but wide-eyed on a hotel kitchen floor, vigils for him now unfolding across the nation, including one in Albany. Quinn’s story in yesterday’s paper on the silencing of Albany’s radical Catholic priest had also infuriated blacks and college students, and a protest meeting set for tonight could inflame a city already quivering with racial tension.

  Quinn’s father, George Quinn, lived with Quinn and could not be left alone. Renata had gone to the clinic to bring home her niece, Gloria, and Ursula, the family housekeeper who doubled as keeper of the quixotic father, had totaled her car, broken her arm, and would do no keeping of any sort today. Quinn went upstairs and found his father dressed for dinner, wearing his gray Palm Beach suit, maroon paisley tie, and tying knots in one of his two hundred neckties. The ties hung on five wooden hangers in the room’s closet, a dozen or more of them knotted and reknotted, one tie outstanding with four knots in it. Quinn moved his father away from the ties and began the daily unknotting.

  “How you feeling?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m several flavors of excellent. How’s yourself?”

  “I’m tip-top but Ursula isn’t coming today. She totaled her car and broke her arm.”

  “Was she hurt?”

  “She broke her arm.”

  “Ursula?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she do that?”

  “She totaled her car.”

  “Was there much damage?”

  “It was totaled.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, and it means we should get you out of the house. Get a little recreation. What do you say?”

  “Recreation is fine if you don’t get too much of it.”

  “How about a few hours? That’s not too much. Get you out on the town. Whataya say we go down to the Elks Club? How does that sound? I’ll drop you when I go to the paper.”

  “There’s people who come in and out and you don’t know who the hell they are.”

  “You’ll know some of them.”

  “It’s neglect all the way along.”

  “What do you mean, neglect?”

  “Right up to snuff.”

  “What do you mean, snuff?”

  “The best. The griff. The spiff. The whole thing here is static.”

  “What do you mean, static?”

  “Static has got to be good.”

  “All right. Get your hat and we’ll go down to the Club.”

  “The Club?”

  “The Elks Club.”

  “I joined the Elks when the bishop wouldn’t let us have beer in the K. of C. alleys.”

  “I remember. You were a ringleader in the protest.”

  “Beer and bowling go together.”

  “You can get both of them at the Club.”

  “The Club.”

  “Get your hat.”

  Quinn called Pat Mahar, custodian of the Elks, and told him George was coming in and could he keep an eye on him for a couple of hours? Leave me a message at the paper if he needs anything, Pat. Just keep him busy, give him a beer or two, not too many, put him in the card room, he can still play blackjack, or in the TV room or at the pool table, just get him talking to his friends and he’ll be all right. He does what he’s told, most of the
time. I know you’re not a nursemaid, Pat, but try to keep him in the club. I’ll owe you. Twenty bucks for your trouble, how’s that? Even with the twenty Quinn didn’t trust Pat to do any of this, but it was a start. He’d stop at the Club himself when he got a few minutes.

  He called the city desk for any change in his assignment and Markson, the city editor, said Quinn should interview the Mayor on Bobby Kennedy and on the racial tension in town.

  “Did you forget the Mayor leaves the room when I arrive?”

  “He’ll get over it. Tell him what a great job he’s doing. We want your perspective on the machine’s hostility to Bobby when he ran for senator. You know that inside out. And pump him on what he’s doing to hold down any violence. You also got a message. Max Osborne wants to see you but he didn’t leave a number.”

  Max. What the hell kind of message is that with no number? “I can’t guarantee I’ll get through to the Mayor,” Quinn said as he hung up, and George Quinn came down the stairs wearing his coconut straw hat.

  “Are we ready?” George asked.

  “We are.” But as Quinn reached for the knob on the vestibule door he saw Matt Daugherty coming up the porch steps, in shirtsleeves and with a grim smile.

  “Matt. We’re just leaving, but come on in.”

  “Only a few minutes,” Matt said. “How are you, George?”

  “I’m three flavors of excellent, how’s yourself?”

  “I’m trying to figure it out,” Matt said.

  “I’m taking him down to the Elks Club,” Quinn said. “You want coffee?”

  “How about a beer?”

  Quinn opened him a bottle of Irish Cream Ale from the fridge and they sat at the kitchen table. George stood by the stove, hat on.

  “We’ll go in a few minutes, Pop,” Quinn said.